stood balanced. On the endless ribbon of island that stretched

out to either hand of him its array of golden and green and

silvery palms, not the most volatile frond was to be seen

stirring; they drooped to their stable images in the lagoon like

things carved of metal, and already their long line began to

reverberate heat. There was no escape possible that day, none

probable on the morrow. And still the stores were running out!

Then came over Davis, from deep down in the roots of his

being, or at least from far back among his memories of

childhood and innocence, a wave of superstition. This run of ill

luck was something beyond natural; the chances of the game

were in themselves more various; it seemed as if the devil must

serve the pieces. The devil? He heard again the clear note of

Attwater's bell ringing abroad into the night, and dying away.

How if God . . . ?

Briskly, he averted his mind. Attwater: that was the point.

Attwater had food and a treasure of pearls; escape made possible

in the present, riches in the future. They must come to grips,

with Attwater; the man must die. A smoky heat went over his

face, as he recalled the impotent figure he had made last night

and the contemptuous speeches he must bear in silence. Rage,

shame, and the love of life, all pointed the one way; and only

invention halted: how to reach him? had he strength enough?

was there any help in that misbegotten packet of bones against

the house?

His eyes dwelled upon him with a strange avidity, as though

he would read into his soul; and presently the sleeper moved,

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